The Meeting
by Slut Queen Virgin King
Summary: Neurotic shower freak Hermione has to share her house with unexpected guests. R for language and concepts. Please r&r.


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THE MEETING

A response to the "Meeting" challenge on WIKTT.

Hermione Granger frowned at the owl.

"Is this a joke?" she demanded.

The owl blinked and looked out the window. He could've been a free owl, could've taken that job doing international parcel post, could've become a stud owl. But no, he had to take the first job that came along, at Hogwarts Prison for Underskilled Magic. And this was his reward - delivering a so-called urgent letter from that buffoon Dumbledore who thought mouse-flavoured jelly beans were good owl food. On top of that, he had to deliver it to Hogsmeade's worst-tempered witch.

"It says here that Hogwarts is flooded."

As long as the owlery stayed dry and smelly, what did the owl care?

"Everyone in Hogsmeade is being asked to put up a few students. Oh, for Merlin's sakes, as if I have the time or room!"

Hermione scribbled a reply and attached it to the owl. It shifted slightly on the kitchen table, which was frighteningly clean and tidy. Pristine. Possibly ironed and starched. If that's what a Hogwarts education did for witches, the owl was glad he was an owl.

Hermione prodded the owl. "Well, go on, then. Get on with it."

The owl clacked at her. Bloody rude human. Hermione fossicked in a drawer and came up with two elderly Bertie Botts' Succulent Owl Treats. They were not succulent, being dried and fluffy, and were definitely not a treat. The owl gagged them down and made a quick get away before the foul-tempered witch fed him something else. Most likely even her kitchen mice were polished.

She was rather pleased with the obstinate 'no' she'd penned to Dumbledore. Silly old duffer. As if she had time these days, what with her Very Important Research Project. Still, it didn't do to get too fanatical about things. She decided to give the kitchen a quick scrub, have a bath, then get on with her research. Her post-graduate thesis was coming along quite nicely. She had to produce 80 scrolls of research, and 15 scrolls of new theory. She had 190 scrolls so far. Now, if she could just condense it a little. Problem was, "A Theoretical End To Magic As We Know It" was so interesting.

She was thinking on her day's work, soaking in a nice hot bath, when the room erupted like a giant howler. The door burst open and four students, all wearing Hogwarts uniform, crowded into the bathroom.

"You weren't downstairs-"

"No one answered our knock-"

"Professor Dumbledore sent us over-"

"He said you women meant yes when you said no-"

"We have to room with you-"

"Mr Filch tried to install a swimming pool-"

"There were rats in the-"

"Mrs Norris chased-"

"Which room can I have-"

"Magical rats-"

"Can we have some breakfast-"

"-Norris the size of a hippogriff-"

"through the plumbing-"

"into the swimming pool-"

"Can I use the bath after you-"

"I'll just hang my shower cap here-"

"-an earth-shattering kaboom-"

"-Moaning Myrtle is in the North Sea-"

"Do you have any toast?"

"-one more from Hogwarts to come-"

"Do you want this towel I'm standing on-"

"swimming pool is empty-'

"But all the school is flooded."

They wound down. Hermione snatched her towel from under the feet of a second-year Hufflepuff girl with ginger hair. The girl lost her footing and let out a piercing scream as she fell, bum first, into the bath. Hermione stepped out.

"Get out!" she ground. "Right out, downstairs into the kitchen. No one move until I get there. Don't touch anything. Especially don't try any magic. I'll owl Dumbledore. This is NOT happening!"

They herded downstairs, even the dripping wet Hufflepuff. A fourth year Ravenclaw felt sorry for her and did a quick drying spell. It went wrong. When Hermione appeared, fully clothed and smelling of baby powder, all four students were wet and smelling of possum.

"In the garden, now!" she bellowed.

The students trooped into the yard and stood like a forlorn flock of wet sheep, waiting their landlady's next move.

Hermione counted to ten. No, she still wanted to kill everyone. Twenty. She wanted to kill Dumbledore. Fifty. Perhaps maiming horribly with his own phoenix was enough. One hundred. She would send him a stiff letter. Two hundred. Well, better make the best of it.

She allocated sleeping quarters. The three girls could have the spare bedroom, and how they fought over the one bed was their concern. The boy could use the couch in the living room. But no sleeping naked. Baggy pyjamas thankyou.

She posted a bathroom and toilet schedule, and said that she wasn't cooking for them. They looked at each other. She didn't look like much of a cook anyway. Probably a good thing they had to fend for themselves. There's always the Three Broomsticks, packages from home, or if worst came to worst, they could fish in Hogwarts' lake. Could you use gillyweed to garnish a grilled merperson?

"Sorry," said the frumpy Slytherin sixth year girl. "Just joking."

But no one was convinced.

The girls predictably fought over the single bed and Slytherin Sally won, if only through superior fire power and sheer weight. The two other girls made themselves beds on the floor. All grumbled as they made their way back to Hogwarts, Classes were held in Hagrid's hut, on the Quidditch pitch, and in trees on the perimeter of the Forbidden Forest.

Hermione was blessedly alone in her house again. For seven dreary years she shared rooms with other Gryffindors. All her spare time had been taken up with Harry and Ron. She was an only child. She liked being alone. It was pmt week. Everyone in the world could fuck off and die.

She settled into her morning's study. Sometime late in the morning, when she was halfway through Nimoyia Spockt's "It's Magic, Jim, But Not As We Know It", she shivered at the touch of an errant breeze on the back of her neck. There was a thump from upstairs. No doubt one of those students had forgotten a text book.

"Shut up!" she screamed, and went back to reading.

Something that sounded like 'sod off' floated down the stairs, but Hermione was reabsorbed in her reading.

She wasn't sure how much time had passed. Surely an hour or so. Had that student come downstairs again? Must have. No noise up there, unless he or she was sleeping. Or going through her things.

Hermione hated people touching her things. Any of them. She whipped up the stairs. No, no one in the spare bedroom. Then she remembered. She had to meet Crookshanks for lunch. Ever since he'd taken up studies of his own, he had little time for her. They made weekly appointments to catch up. 

Hermione stripped in her bedroom and hurried to the bathroom. Crookshanks liked her to be clean. She liked to be clean. She showered five times a day. She was not neurotic. Doctors have been wrong about that sort of thing before.

She pulled back the shower curtain. No time for a bath. And screamed. So did he.

Severus Snape was about to turn on the water. He was naked. So was she.

"What the hell? Get! Out! Of! My! Bathroom!" She was NOT going to be showering with Snape.

"Shut the bloody curtain, you silly girl. I've been billeted here for the duration…… If you're not going to close the curtain, stop perving!"

"You stop. Anyone would think you'd never seen tits before. Talk to my face, dammit! And get out of the bath. You're dirtying it."

Snape turned on the water. "There, now I'm washing away my nasty Snape germs. It's called a dick, Miss Granger. No need to goggle. Shut the bloody curtain!"

"Don't use all the hot water! For Merlin's sake, let me adjust the taps." She stepped into the bath and fiddled with the tempramental taps. They didn't take kindly to being fondled and gave out blasts of boiling and freezing water.

Snape slapped at her hands. "It was fine before you interfered. Now get out. I have a class in an hour, in the fucking Whomping Willow of all places. Medusa's hair, what the hell was Albus thinking? I said, quit messing with the taps."

"This is my bathroom and my taps. And I have to shower before going out. Stop poking me with that!"

He smiled without humour. "Sorry." He wasn't. "Will you get those things off my chest?"  
"You move them. I'm busy." She grabbed for the cake of soap just as Snape did. The soap had other ideas and left the room via the window.

They looked at each other.

"That was your fault," they both said.

Hermione sighed and pushed forward, trying to get more of the water spray for herself. "I'll be done in a minute if you'll just move over. Oh, put that away. No one's interested."

"I told you to get those….balloons off me. I'm pressed up against the wall now. Just hurry up."

"I would if you'd give me more room. How can I wash my hair?"

"It's overwashed anyway. That's why it's so frizzy. Any first year Potions student can see that. Here, hold still." He shampoo'd her hair.

Hermione grunted her thankyou. She rinsed and Snape applied conditioner.

"What is this stuff? You smell like a fruit market."

"Better than your odour. What do you use? Eau de Locker Room? Here, turn around." She washed Snape's hair.

He mumbled a thankyou. Neither of them liked the word.

"Now, if you'll excuse me," Hermione said and gestured to the gap in the curtains.

"I was here first."

"Are all our showers going to be like this?"

"Most likely. Your shower schedule is pure crap, by the way. I'll shower when I want."

"I'll complain to Dumbledore."

"I'm scared. Would you mind moving your leg over a bit?"

"I hope you washed that thing before you put it in there."

"Stop squirming. I'm losing my balance."

"Then stop pushing so hard."

The shower curtain ripped.

"Now see what you've done. It's brand new. I hope you're going to pay for it."

"I'm already paying for it….I…uh….hrnnngh!"

"Don't just stand there. That's…..eh…eh….ooooh!"

"You're standing on my foot."

"I have to wash all over again. Get out of the shower."

Snape obliged. Hermione scrubbed herself clean and stepped out. Snape was dressed and sitting on the edge of her bed. He bounced several times.

"It's not very comfortable."

"I like a hard bed."

"It's not very big."

"I wouldn't bandy that phrase around too much. Just move. I can't get to my wardrobe."

"Shall I see you for dinner?"

"No. Bring wine."

"No. What sort?"

"I don't care. White."

"I hate white. I hate you."

"I hate you, too. Have a shitty day."  
"You too."

***** *****

Author's note: Don't ya just hate soppy love stories? Apologies to those who do. Love is just a four letter word.


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